


Play Pretend

by missmichellebelle



Series: Tropetember [6]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Nanny, Fluff, Future Fic, Humor, M/M, Nanny Ian, Successful Mickey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-16 11:20:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2267820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmichellebelle/pseuds/missmichellebelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s weird to think that this guy could be his boss. He’s so fucking young. How old could he possibly be? Early 20s, like Ian himself? Maybe mid? Possibly a very youthful 30 year old? However old he is, Ian can tell that he’s successful, and he must be, if he can afford to hire a full-time nanny.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Play Pretend

**Author's Note:**

> **Tropetember** is a month long event where the goal is to write a fic fulfilling a different trope/AU every day. If there is a specific trope/AU you would like to see, please [drop me an ask on tumblr](http://missmichellebelle.tumblr.com/ask).
> 
> I already want to write 100k more of this and I'm sitting on my hands to keep myself from doing it aaaaaaah I'll come back okay I'll come back to it.
> 
> (Also it's funny I chose today to write this considering all the, ahem, spoilers floating around and such).
> 
> (I fucking agonized over the title so if you see it change in the future it's because I finally thought of something better jfc.)

The only reason Ian is there is because he’s fresh out of college and has spent the last two months looking for a job in the field his degree is in, only to come up empty every time. _It happens_ , he’s told. _Careers in your field are hard to come by_ , they say. _No one gets the job they want right out of school_. It’s fucking bullshit.

(Then again, maybe if he had a degree in something like science or business, it wouldn’t be so hard, but _no_. No, he’d decided to study English literature. He’d basically screwed himself over, really.)

So that’s why he’s there, fidgeting on some’s strangers couch, waiting in silence as said stranger sits in the chair diagonal from him and reads over the resume Ian has spent the last four years perfecting but that must be shit because it has yet to get him an actual _job_. His eyes dart around the room as sweat gathers where his palms are pressed together, and he quickly wipes them on his slacks.

It’s a nice apartment. A little on the smaller side, but not in the suffocating way. Just in a way that says Mr. Milkovich doesn’t need a lot of space. There are shelves of books and DVDs, but there’s hardly anything little that could clue Ian into his possible employer—he spots maybe two or three small picture frames on a shelf, but other than that, there aren’t any knick-knacks or personal touches at all.

“So you got experience with kids?” Mr. Milkovich asks him, looking across at Ian. It’s weird to think that this guy could be his boss. He’s so fucking _young_. How old could he possibly be? Early 20s, like Ian himself? Maybe mid? Possibly a very youthful 30 year old? However old he is, Ian can tell that he’s successful, and he must be, if he can afford to hire a full-time nanny.

“Oh, absolutely,” Ian assures, adopting his most charming smile. “I have five siblings, and three of them are younger than me. I’ve been helping raise them since I was, god… Four?” When Debbie was born, and it was little things, like, “Sit with Debbie, Ian,” or, “Hold Debbie’s hand and don’t let go, Ian.” When he thinks about it, maybe the responsibility started more when he was six and Carl was born.

Mr. Milkovich looks at Ian over the edge of the resume, and Ian is waiting for the question that should come next—the one about his family, about his parents, about why Ian would have to take care of children when he was just a child himself. He holds his breath waiting for it, but when Mr. Milkovich opens his mouth again, he asks, “Where you from, Ian?”

It’s surprising, and still just as bad. Ian can feel himself deflating—it’s a question he can’t _not_ answer, and it’s an answer that’s going to kiss any chance of this job goodbye.

“Uh… South Side.”

Mr. Milkovich stares at him, and Ian prepares himself for the whole, “Well, it was nice meeting with you,” spiel.

Except that it doesn’t come.

“Your family still live there?”

Ian lifts his eyes from where he’d been staring at the edge of the coffee table, and meet’s Mr. Milkovich’s inquisitive blue ones.

“Uh, yeah. A few of them. Debs is going off to college soon, but the two youngest are still there—Carl, and Liam. And my older sister. She looks after them.” Ian doesn’t know why he feels the need to explain. He’s just creating more glimpses into his past, the one he’s trying to move away from but can never really escape. It’s where he comes from, and while he can try to distance himself from it, people will always ask. And it will always undermine whatever Ian can make of himself.

His eyes dip to Mr. Milkovich’s hands, to the tattoos that stand out in dark relief against his pale skin. It’s not hard to figure out what they say. And Ian can’t help but wonder where _he_ comes from, and how many people he had to prove wrong to get where he is.

“Not gonna lie, I originally imagined a chick for this job, ya know?” Mr. Milkovich starts, and Ian feels that dead, sinking feeling in his gut again. “Yev doesn’t get to see his mom all that much, and I thought it’d be good for him to have a woman around, or some shit.” He twists his wrist around, trying to find the words to explain it. “Positive influence, right?”

Here it comes. The spiel.

“But you seem to know your shit, Gallagher.”

…or not.

“You think you can come back this evening? ‘Round five? I’d like you to meet him.” Mr. Milkovich glances down at Ian’s resume again, and Ian wonders what he’s looking for there. “Yev,” he clarifies, as if Ian didn’t know what he meant, and Ian grins, wide and hopeful.

“I—yes, absolutely. I’ll be here. Thank you so much, Mr. Milkovich, I can’t even begin to—“

“Woah, woah. Calm down. And cut it with the Mr. Milkovich crap, all right? It’s Mickey.” He looks highly amused and maybe even a little annoyed. “And don’t thank me yet. I didn’t say you got the job.”

True, but Ian is one step _closer_ to getting it. So what if becoming a nanny wasn’t his plan after graduating? Everyone’s gotta start somewhere.

*

Yevgeny Milkovich is a dark haired, blue-eyed, spitting image of his father. He’s five, according to Mr. Milko—Mickey, and he’s either very quiet or very polite. Maybe both. 

Ian hadn’t realized he’d been invited to dinner until he showed up at the Milkovich apartment right on time, and Mickey had a phone to his ear and was ushering him wordlessly into an apartment that smelled thickly of Italian food. After a very uncomfortable five minutes that mostly involved Ian shifting awkwardly in the entryway, Mickey had come back, said they were just sitting down to dinner, and then walked away without any further explanation or direction. Ian had hesitated for a few moments before realizing that was the only invitation he was going to get, and then followed after him.

And that’s how Ian ends up sitting opposite Mickey, with quiet, little Yevgeny diagonally to his left, and a plate full of what is clearly take out(at least Mickey hadn’t gone to any lengths to hide the foil containers and pass it off as his own cooking) set before him.

Ian has been quietly watching Yev push a meatball around his plate—he hasn’t taken a single bite since Ian sat down, and Ian can’t blame him. The atmosphere feels so tense that Ian can’t really find it in himself to eat, either.

Although Mickey doesn’t seem to be having a problem, with the silence or the eating. He’s heaving large portions of pasta into his mouth, all the while tapping away one-handed at something on his phone. It doesn’t look like he plans on breaking the tension anytime soon, either.

And that’s when Ian remembers that this is an _interview_. It doesn’t matter that they’re seated at a dinner table and that it isn’t what Ian had remotely prepared for. Yet there he is, silent and awkward and all the things he _never_ is when he’s trying to impress someone.

He needs this job, and he’s fucking _blowing_ the opportunity.

Ian goes to finally say something, and Mickey’s phone starts buzzing on the table.

“Shit.” And that’s all Mickey says before he pushes away from the table and just leaves the room completely. Ian stares after him, mouth hanging open, and then turns to Yev.

“Does he do that a lot?” Ian asks, and the boy just slouches in his chair, like he wants to disappear, and Ian decides to go with his _very quiet_ assumption.

“So Yev—do you like that name better than your full name?” Ian asks, turning in his chair so he can face the small boy more fully. He nods, once. “Your dad tells me you’re five.” Yev shakes his head. “No? Hmm… How about five and a half?” Ian smiles as Yev glances shyly at him and then nods. “Wow, so you must be starting kindergarten, huh?” Another nod. “Are you excited?”

Yev goes back to playing with his meatball.

“Not excited…” Ian muses, feeling a tug in his heart. “It’s okay to be scared, you know.” Yev turns to look at him, finally, blinking his big, blue, innocent eyes, like he’s scared right that second. “School can be scary, but it can also be a lot of fun. I _loved_ kindergarten. There’s a bunch of stuff to do there.” Ian assures him, leaning down so he’s a little more on Yev’s level. “What sort of things do you like to do?” Ian asks softly, and Yev fidgets, glances away, then looks back again, chewing on his lower lip.

“Drawing,” Yev says in a quiet little voice, and Ian feels like he falls instantly in love with the boy in that second.

“Yeah? They do tons of drawing in kindergarten,” Ian assures. “I’m jealous. I can’t draw at all. Maybe you could teach me?” Ian tips his head to the side, and is awarded with an excited smile.

“See you two have become friends.”

Ian looks up and over at where Mickey has re-entered the room, slipping his phone into his pocket and looking between Ian and his son, seeming amused.

“Ian can’t draw,” Yev announces to his father, and Ian let’s out a little laugh.

“Hey now, I thought that was our secret.” Ian regrets saying it when Yev’s eyes widen with regret, and Ian reaches toward him and strokes his hair a few times. “I’m just kidding.” And Yev seems appeased.

Mickey watches the entire exchange silently, and then turns to his son and says, “Yev, eat your dinner.”

“Here, you need help?” Ian asks. “That meatball is bigger than you are.” Yev lets out a little giggle, and Ian picks up his silverware for the first time that night.

“No it’s not,” Yev insists and Ian starts to slice the meatball in half.

“Well, _almost_ ,” Ian counters playfully, and Yev just grins at him.

He’s still cutting the meatball down into smaller, bite-sized pieces, when Mickey asks, “So when can you start?”

The knife makes a horrible screeching sound as Ian scratches it unpleasantly against the plate.

“Ow,” Yev mumbles in the silence that follows, as Ian openly gapes at Mickey in surprise.

“What?”

“When can you start?” Mickey enunciates each word incredibly careful, and Ian might feel insulted if he wasn’t so _fucking shocked_. This is the second part of the interview, and Mickey has hardly _talked_ to him. There’s no way he just fucking decided to hire Ian out of the blue.

“Really?” Ian can’t help asking, still afraid that maybe he missed a sentence or heard wrong or _something_.

“Christ, you still want the job or not?”

“Well, of course—“

“Then answer the fucking question.”

Ian glances at Yev, but he seems completely unfazed by the language, scooping up pieces of now manageable meatball and eating them contently.

“Immediately,” Ian answers, his throat feeling thick as the reality of the situation dawns on him. He got the job.

He got _a job_.

“Good. You start Monday, because my sister would fucking kill me if I took away her last two days with her nephew,” Mickey mutters under his breath, his phone suddenly in front of him again as he types away at it rapidly. “All the contact information on that resume of yours up to date?”

“Yes.” Ian has to bite back the _sir_ sitting on his lips.

“Great.” Ian feels a buzz in his pocket. “Sent you all of mine, including my office information. You free tomorrow afternoon?”

“Yes—“

“Come down to my office around three, and we can discuss all the terms of your employment—expectations, salary, benefits.”

 _Benefits?_ Ian is starting to wonder if he’s actually a nanny or if he accidentally interviewed for something else completely. But he’s also acutely aware of the fact that he has _no idea_ what Mickey Milkovich does for a living. Whatever it is, it’s made him successful. And wealthy.

Wealthy enough to refer to Ian’s pay as salary rather than a by-the-hour rate. Wealthy enough to provide _benefits_.

“Sound good?” Mickey finally looks up at him, and their eyes lock for an intensely long second.

“Sounds great,” Ian finally manages, and Mickey just nods. 

Ian isn’t quite sure what to do then—they’re still in the middle of dinner, would it be rude to leave? But apparently cutting up Yev’s meatball has enamored the little boy to him, and he turns his innocent eyes on Ian and asks, “Have you seen The Little Mermaid?”

“You seen it?” Mickey asks in confusion, shooting his son a look. “Where are you watching that shit?”

“Auntie’s,” Yev replies simply, without looking at his dad. He keeps his eyes trained firmly on Ian, waiting for his answer, and making Ian realize that those eyes are _dangerous_ weapons.

“I have,” Ian replies, deciding he should probably make an effort to eat his dinner.

“Do you know Ariel?” Yev asks, and Ian just smiles and nods. “You look like her,” he tells Ian very seriously, and Mickey snorts from the other end of the table—Ian ignores it.

“You think so?” Ian asks, and Yev nods. “That’s probably the best compliment I’ve ever gotten, Yev. Thank you.” And Yev smiles bashfully before looking back at his food.

Ian fondly shakes his head, beginning to twirl spaghetti around his fork, when Yev goes, “What’s that?” And points at the way Ian’s wrapping the pasta.

“Want me to show you how to do it?” Ian asks, and Yev nods eagerly, prompting Ian to set his own utensils down and arranging Yev’s small hands around his own silverware. While he’s instructing the boy how to twirl his pasta, he glances up and catches Mickey watching at them, something soft and warm in his eyes that disappears behind something colder and harder the second Mickey realizes that Ian’s caught him staring.

He lifts a challenging eyebrow, and Ian just smirks in return, before turning his attention back to Yev.

This job might just end up being a lot more than Ian bargained for, and to be quite honest, he finds himself looking forward to the challenge.

**Author's Note:**

> [Read, Reblog, & Like on Tumblr](http://missmichellebelle.tumblr.com/post/96859293485/play-pretend)


End file.
